“It’s a crudo dish, sir,” I say, lips thinning in a smile. “It’s meant to be served cold.”
“Well, I don’t like cold food,” he sniffs. “Do I look European to you?”
Before I can come up with a polite response, a smooth voice cuts in from the next table.
“It’svitello tonnato, Mr. Bernardi. It’s a northern Italian specialty. Quite delicate.”
Luca.
I stare at him, momentarily entranced by the way the Italian words slide off his tongue like melted chocolate. He sounds like a man used to getting what he wants. Like he could unmake me with a look.
I shake my head slightly to stop my thoughts from going down that direction, just in time to catch Clive huff.
He prides himself on being Italian-American, but the truth is, he always has something to say about what comes out of our kitchen. I don’t believe he’s spent a single day in Italy in his life. Far as I know, his last-living Italian relative was his great-great-great-grandfather. Suffice to say, his tastes veer more towards fusion dishes than authentic ones.
Unfortunately, authenticity is exactly what we pride ourselves on.
“Well, I don’t care where it’s from,” he snaps. “I want it hot.”
“Of course,” I say quickly. It’s not my job to judge our customers as I get paid to give them what they want. I feel ashamed it even crossed my mind to think ill of him. “I’ll take it back to the kitchen.”
As I scoop up the plate, Savannah meets me at the kitchen door with an encouraging smile. She sticks the plate into the microwave with a grimace. She’s the one who made it, so I can only imagine how badly it pains her.
Her hand gently pats me on the shoulder. “Hang in there.” Her voice is a soft whisper.
She’s the only reason I’m not curled up in the walk-in freezer crying right now. Her and the rest of the girls.
I turn to look at them. Amber mixing drinks like a magician behind the bar, Rose fussing with the flower arrangements, and Izzy double-checking the register like she’s safeguarding national secrets.
They’re my safe zone. My anchor. The only real support I’ve got.
I love them.
And I hate that my eyes keep drifting back to Luca Lucchese.
Savannah catches me looking and smirks. “You’ve got itbad.”
“I do not,” I hiss.
“Oh, please. You blush every time he looks at you. It’s adorable.”
“He’s a millionaire. Billionaire. Whatever. I’m... me.”
“Oh, please,” she says, tossing a lock of auburn hair over her shoulder. “You’re a catch. You just haven’t realized it yet. Lucky for you, I thinkhehas.”
I want to believe her. But I know better. I know what kind of girl I am. The one who counts pennies, who works double shifts, who wakes up at five just to write a few tired pages of the novel I’ll probably never finish. The one who hides the overdue bills in a drawer and prays no one knocks on the door. I’m not some polished woman in heels with perfect nails and nothing to prove.
I’m tired. I’m behind on everything. I’m nothing special.
Luca? He’severything.
“You’re one to talk,” I mumble. “If anyone’s caught attention, it’s you. Have you seen Mr. Romano’s eyes? They’re practically glued to this door, waiting for the moment you’ll peek out of it.”
She shakes her head, but I catch a blush creeping up her cheeks. “I’m just the one who makes the food.”
“And I’m telling you, he’s never left a single crumb. Ever.”
“SAVANNAH!” Gerard’s booming voice echoes from the bowels of the kitchen. “GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE!”
